In Sickness and in Hell: A Collection of Unusual Stories Page 4

  But I could sense that he was studying me. “It’s all well and done, old friend. Perhaps I took it more seriously than I should have.” He smiled disarmingly. “Let’s not ruin this reunion so quickly, hmm? You’ve got the normal shipment, don’t you?”

  I moved my shabby old briefcase from the floor to the tabletop. Wyles didn’t even blink, didn’t even open it when he pulled it across the table. He trusted me. How could he not? I am an angel after all; swindling isn’t something my kind is known for.

  “Thank you,” was all he said. But I knew he was grateful.

  Curious what was in the briefcase? Of course you are, you’re human. Truth is that it was another near miss of your mythology: ambrosia. You heard me right. Food of the gods and all that, except that it’s actually for angels. It’s good stuff, really. Think of it this way; after living on ambrosia, eating anything without it is kind of like switching to skim milk from whole; you always feel like the real food is missing. Angelic creatures can technically “eat” anything on earth, but we are only nourished by ambrosia, and ambrosia can, of course, only be found in Heaven. Naturally the once-angelic don’t have access to it once they are Fallen. But they can’t die from starvation, either. This denial of sustenance is just another eternal punishment for them, albeit an unintended one. Watching such cruel punishment meted out to our friends is unbearable for us angels; after all, our sole purpose here is to relieve suffering.

  And that’s why Wyles and I risk meeting every month. Friends on my side of the Buffer send me what they can along with names for it to go to. We aren’t hiding this operation, but we aren’t advertising either. The stuff funnels in to me from all across the Kingdom, and I take it into the Buffer—that is, earth, the world of both good and evil that separates Hell from Heaven—and pass it on. On the other side it gets passed out. I assume it goes to the right people, but I don’t really know. I know my part goes to Lorelei though; Wyles wouldn’t cheat me that.

  I used to get letters from her, gushing with thanks. That stopped long, long ago. Sounds like she was doing well for herself though. I had my own theories of why she stopped writing to me but I guess after today, none of that matters anymore. For centuries I’d sent her what I could, even when she became Sixth Temptress. Now I don’t even know what her rank is, since I can’t find out, she stopped writing, and Wyles never told.

  Speaking of the devil, Wyles' phone had rung about then and he had gone to answer it in the other room. I sat, enjoyed my Coke, and heard only muffled, emphatic talk. After my earlier rebuffing though, I didn't want to listen in and piss Wyles off again.

  Come to think of it, this day might’ve ended a lot differently if I had listened to that conversation; I might actually know who to believe.

  Regardless, he came back in the room, took his seat, grabbed his bottle, and just sat and looked at the closed window blinds. That’s when I really started getting worried. He’s usually much more talkative than this. Something was going on, but I was afraid to ask him what it was.

  I stood up at that point, awkwardly resettling my jacket on my shoulders. By then I'd been there fifteen or twenty minutes. This was when I usually left. “Hey, Wyles, I think I should get going. It was good seeing you.” It didn’t even look like he had heard me. “Hey man, I’m heading out.”

  He still didn't respond, so I turned my back to him and headed for the door.

  “That was her, Brody.”

  The doorknob suddenly felt very cold in my hand.

  “She's coming to see you.”

  I took a step back into the room. He was still staring at the window even though he couldn't see outside. I knew who he was talking about, but at that time I didn't know why it disturbed him so badly. I would’ve been happy to see her again in any other circumstance, but Wyles’ obvious fear gave me pause.

  I matched his serious tone. “I thought she couldn't leave Hell without permission. What is she doing in the Buffer, Wyles?”

  That’s when he looked at me at last. He stood up and turned around and looked me square in the eye. He'd dropped his disguise entirely, and for the first time ever I saw his full demonic figure.

  “Brody, I'm sorry. It's like I said before: we're just foot soldiers. This whole thing is much bigger than us. We just do the best we can, right?”

  That next moment still seems like it took too long to have happened so fast. I was about to ask him what he was talking about when the wall behind me exploded. Next thing I knew, Wyles had twin streams of smoking black ichor oozing out of bullet holes in his scale-covered chest and I was on my knees on the floor.

  I brushed plaster dust out of my hair and looked up. She had a pistol in her hand and her tail was lashing back and forth in the hallway behind her where the door used to be. Even as a demon she was beautiful.

  “It's good to see you, Broden,” she said.

  I looked from Lorelei back towards Wyles' spiritless body. The black spines protruding from his back in his true form had caught on the window blinds and as he fell the blinds had been ripped from their mountings. I could see out the windows now. Outside, the city’s skyline was visible against red clouds that burned on the horizon despite the night. Until that moment alone, I had not known fear.

  “Lorelei, what's going on?” I asked her. I won’t deny that the words trembled as they left my throat.

  Hell hounds barked from down the hall, heading straight for us.

  “I'm sorry, but I don't have time to explain, Broden. You see the clouds. You know what is happening. Wyles betrayed you, kept you distracted here while the plan went into effect. I came as quickly as I could to stop him. His orders were to keep you from your duties, to stop you from warning Heaven that Hell’s forces were mobilizing. Broden, he was ordered to kill you.”

  I was on my feet now and just starting to actually process everything she had told me.

  “Then those hounds are coming for you, aren't they?”

  “Yes, but I’m not afraid. Good-bye, Broden. Forgive me.”

  And then she kissed me.

  She was gone the moment her lips touched mine. Not dead—we can’t “die”—but annihilated. Lost forever to oblivion. Like I said before, demons and angels aren’t supposed to touch. To be honest, I’m still not sure why the same thing didn’t happen to me. The hounds, sent out to punish her for the sin of killing a fellow demon, fled back to Hell now that there was no one to bring back. And there I was, alone with the shell of my best friend lying on the floor beside me and the burning of a demon’s kiss on my lips.

  I tell you, I started to go up to Heaven to sound the alarm, hoping there was still time to assemble the Host for the Final Battle prophesized by scripture.

  But I didn’t do it.

  I stopped, and I came back down to the Buffer. I came back because I thought that at least a few humans should know what is happening. And to be honest, this is where I want to be at the end of days. Pubs have always been the antithesis of my work; you don't think about the world in a bar, you escape from it. And that's exactly what I want right now.

  As angels, we were all happy because we were all one. But then came the Choice, and we were divided. I can't help thinking that it wasn't the side that you picked that was important in the end, just the fact that there was a choice at all that ruined us. We aren't like you humans; we weren’t designed to make decisions.

  You must understand that we were born with everything we could want, and no desire for anything else. It wasn’t until the advent of the Great Divorce that we began to learn of loss. All of us, even the angels, suffer now in our own way. For a human, empathy means to imagine what another feels. For an angel, empathy means to actually feel what another feels. We all have friends in Hell, and we see their pain and there is nothing we can do about it. The prophecies talk of the great battle, but we live with its outcome even before the battle has happened: somehow, we’ve all already lost. It took me until now to realize that.

  My closest friends, demons both, are gone and
I don't know what to believe. Too many questions are left. If Wyles were going to kill me, why didn't he? Why was he so shaken to hear that Lorelei was coming? How did she get out of Hell?

  From what Lorelei told me, the plan was to have Wyles kill me so that Hell could make its move before Heaven knew what was happening. Makes sense I guess. Some demon must've figured out that I was the highest ranking angel down here. But Lorelei found out about the plan, sacrificed herself to find me first and stop Wyles from following his orders. Knowing what would happen to her, she decided to end it on her own terms, and to touch me one more time.

  Of course, I never got the sense that Wyles was actually trying to kill me. That means there is another possibility: maybe those were his orders, but he couldn't go through with it. Maybe Lorelei was given permission to leave Hell to make sure the plan wasn't ruined, slayed Wyles for his disobedience or so he didn’t get in her way, and kissed me. Why the kiss then? Maybe she thought it would annihilate me too.

  But it didn’t. So what did it do?

  As I sit here talking it out with you, I’m beginning to suspect that I didn't survive her touch intact. Maybe she left part of herself on me. That could be the source of these thoughts. Either she knew what would happen if an angel and a demon touched, and desired it, and included me in it, or she didn’t know and hoped it would destroy both of us. Maybe the mix of angel and demon has given me a taste of what it is like to be human, to see both right and wrong and be damned to indecision and insecurity because of that dual sight.

  Or maybe I've just spent too much time in the Buffer.

  Truth is, I don't know. And I don't want to know. I don't care if this was their plan all along or not. I want everything to be done, and I think all of us angelic beings will be happier with it that way; no more separation, no more choices. How do you people live like this, day in and day out?

  And that's what it all comes down to, isn't it. You humans were made with forgiveness and grace, and we angels were not.

  We don't have any place to go, but we don't need one. We've all been to Heaven and lost it, one way or the other. We’re separated now, and the only way to be united again is in oblivion.

  So that's why I'm here, telling you this story. I thought at least one of you should hear it anyway. Don't believe me? Look outside and see for yourself. Look at the heavens, see them burn. That's the end of the afterlife, my friend. No more Heaven; no more Hell.

  Why?

  Well because at this point, the Big Guy can’t win this fight. But here’s another thing you probably didn’t know since we’ve gone out of our way to keep it a secret from you humans: the rules He wrote don’t say that good always prevails, they say that evil always loses. It’s a small difference, but an important one. As soon as the Other takes the Throne, it’s lights out for all of us celestials. Otherwise, why would it be so important that I be down here standing guard, ready to sound the alarm?

  For me and my kind, that’s alright. It’s our escape. We can finally be freed from the torment we weren't designed to endure; we can be free from this separation. We can be one again.

  What's going to happen to you? I wish I could say. It's possible the Buffer will survive and you'll all live out your lives just the same, but without us agents interfering all the time. What should you do? Nothing you can do, friend, so don't worry about it. Have a pint. Do your best with the gifts you've been given. That’s all the advice I can offer.

  Now let’s finish our drinks, for I feel my time here is spent. This one I raise to Corlissa, whose innocence I have made the choice to protect so that she wouldn’t have to. Don’t remember her? Good; that’s the point. May she continue to be free from choice, forever and ever.

  Amen.

  The Definition

  Earnest T. Chenkowitz is a man of order.

  Anyone would tell you so. Ask his colleagues at Yale. Put the question to his barber, who trims Chenky's hair at two o'clock every Sunday afternoon. Ask either of his daughters, Amelia or Cynthia.

  Well, perhaps not Amelia. She had been the one who had had him committed.

  Seven o’clock in the morning: Dr. Chenkowitz rises from his bed, showers, and brushes his teeth. He reads fiction until eight, at which point he and the other guests are invited to breakfast.

  Amelia had been the one to sign the papers anyway. Earnest knows it had been all three of them—the others were complicit, if not involved. Cynthia didn't have the stomach to put her own father away, but she was a good girl; she always listened to her mother. He remembered how much his wife Beth had cried that time she came to visit. That had been about two years ago now.

  Shakespeare's Lear, Cervantes' Quixote, and Chenkowitz. A long, proud line of men abused by ungrateful family.

  He should have done more research, been better prepared before he represented himself in court, he knows that now. He knows so many things now that he has time to think about them. Brilliance is often taken for insanity. If you want to be happy, it's best to be born in the fat womb of the bell-shaped curve. Society doesn't like extremes.

  Eleven o'clock: morning constitutional in the yard. The path is so worn down along the fence, it shows as a sustained indentation despite the inches of snow on the ground. Dutifully, Dr. Chenkowitz plows ahead, his mind so consumed by his latest work that he stops short when he realizes that, for the first time in months, the skies are clear blue and the sun is shining over the snow-powdered roof of St. Abraham's Care Facility for the Disturbed. One lap. Two laps. Three. A horn sounds from the tallest guard tower.

  Twelve o'clock: Earnest retreats to the library to work. Harriet is sitting in a steel chair near the entrance, her feet wrapped around its legs, pushing it back against the wall.

  “Good day, Dr. Chenkowitz!” Harriet says. She is smiling up from behind her book. “It's today, isn't it? Today's the day!”

  Earnest ignores her. He goes to the brightest seat in the library, where the tall thin windows let in the afternoon sun in long, unbroken banners. He hangs his sport coat over the back of the chair at the grey table. Referring to a paper from his briefcase, he goes back into the legal section of the institution's library. All of the books are filmed in dust. All of them except one. Earnest spends three minutes finding the next book on his list. He brings the volume down carefully with both hands. Returning to his table, Earnest places the book before him and runs a pale hand across the old leather. The edges of the pages are trimmed in gold, like a Bible, or like a paper plate at a child's birthday party. Earnest flips open the book and begins to read. Across the room, Harriet looks up from her novel. She whispers to herself, “Today's the day! Today's the day!”

  One o'clock: Earnest slams the book shut in frustration and raises it over his head. He is going to throw it. He is going to send it flying through the narrow windows and out into the snow. He is going to—looking up, he spies Harriet watching him. Her eyes are big and yellow, like the pages of the paperback in her hands. Earnest lowers the book to the table and lets out a long sigh. Anger will do him no good here. Anger will only feed the psychologist's theories and prove his family's suppositions. What he needs to find is peace.

  And that damned definition.

  Earnest forces a smile in Harriet's direction. She cowers behind the thin armor of her paperback. Earnest eases the legal book open and resumes reading where he had left off.

  At four o'clock an orderly comes to inform Chenkowitz that his presence is requested at a meeting. Unusual. Chenkowitz obliges the young man, but insists on bringing the book he is currently reading.

  “No can do, sir,” the orderly tells him. “But don't you worry, it'll be here tomorrow when you come back for it, just like always.”

  Chenkowitz allows himself to be escorted from the library to the conference room. The room is painted in pale, horizontal shades of blue and grey. Two men and a woman sit in a row behind a steel table. The panel of doctors greet him and ask him how he is feeling.

  “Stupendous. Terrific. Now if you'll e
xcuse me, I must continue my work.”

  The doctor at the end of the table smiles. “What are you working on, Dr. Chenkowitz?”

  Chenkowitz glares. “You know damn well what I'm working on, Dr. Erstein. I'm trying to get out of here.”

  “How?”

  Chenkowitz's hand twitches, missing the weight of the legal book, the feel of the old leather. “Society has defined me as insane. I know that I am not. Therefore, to prove that I am not, I must find the proper definition to show this. If I can just find the definition—”

  “But you did find it, Dr.” the woman says, putting a hand on the arm of the man beside her to quiet him. “You read it out loud, in court. Dr. Briggs was there.” The man on her opposite side nods his head. “And your family—”

  “It obviously was not the right one,” Chenkowitz snarls, “because I am still here, aren't I! No, law is a fickle beast. There are hundreds of definitions of insanity, thousands of variations. If I can only find the proper one, you will have to let me get back to my life, back to my real work!”

  With that, Chenkowitz storms from the room. They don’t try to stop him. Dr. Erstein chuckles before a glare from Dr. Briggs cuts him off. Dr. Briggs puts a comforting hand on the woman's shoulder beside him.

  “How are you doing, Cynthia?” he asks her.

  She shakes her head. She’s crying. “He doesn't even recognize me anymore. He doesn't even recognize his own daughter.”

  Briggs rubs her back. “He's getting worse. I'm sorry.”

  Cynthia stands and gathers her things. “You're right. I know you're right.” She wipes her eyes. “Thank you for your time, doctors. Shall we meet again next week?”

  Briggs and Erstein look at each other. “Uh, sure thing, Ms. Chenkowitz. We'll see you then,” Briggs answers. Cynthia walks out of the room, the curls of her hair bouncing against her shoulders with each step.

  Joel Erstein says, “Why do we keep doing this, Sam? You said yourself that he's getting worse. Why do you let her keep coming in here and torturing herself like this?”